If you had a clue how it hurts when you cut in,
with your blade ever-sharp, like a spade to my heart, within;
if you felt the fear that I feel when the torture begins –
if you really loved this person I am,
under this roughed up and broken skin,
I doubt you’d ever be able to hurt me, again.
When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,
when you promise that I can believe what you say;
and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –
when you would sooner beat me than to let me get away,
for just a moment, from the constant hurt and pain,
you’d rather violate me in every imaginable way.
Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,
you broke me down and ground me out through the course of time;
once you knew I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –
once you recognized the kind by which my spirit is defined,
it then became a simple matter of the gradual pass of time,
before it explodes, and you lose your damned mind.
If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled,
at the hands of your very own beloved,
if your days were so bad, that you wished you were dead –
if you spent your every night being pinned beneath dread,
and your days cleaning wounds all over your swimming head,
I can guarantee that you would have killed me, instead.
When your painful marks cover all of my visible parts,
and you still can’t fight the despicable urge to tear the rest apart;
when the light shines onto what you’ve done to me in the dark –
when you recognize my terror, so you’re sure to make it smart,
and you have brutality down to a medieval dungeon art,
it’s no wonder my blood runs so miserably slow and dark.